


Healing Hands

by ashgemini



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ship is only if you squint, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashgemini/pseuds/ashgemini
Summary: After the battle of Helm's Deep, Legolas searches for Aragorn





	Healing Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a few things Aragorn says during Two Towers

After the battle comes an awful sort of silence. The clanging of swords, cries of horses, and screams of men echo in all of their ears for hours after, occasionally punctuated by the groans of the injured. Aragorn had been tending to them all morning, expression grave and brow furrowed, but that had been some time ago, and Legolas has begun to worry.

It’s nearly evening now, but they’ve all been awake for well over a day, and time is starting to feel a bit unreal. Legolas can see how weary the men have become, the sweat and dirt and grime of the battle still clings to the skin of those who have not been able to slip away for sleep and a wash. But still, it’s not like Aragorn to leave when there are people to be tended to.

He walks through the crowd lightly, elven steps barely making a sound, searching the crowd for the would-be king. Éomer shakes his head when Legolas asks after Aragorn, Gimli grunts and jerks a shoulder, returning to sharpening his axe. Gandalf looks concerned but is preoccupied by a discussion with Théoden about the coming ride to Isengard.

Legolas wanders through Helm’s Deep for long enough that even he begins to feel an ache in his muscles, begins to feel the long hours that they’ve all been awake for. Finally, he comes to a room tucked away in the depths of the fortress. Perhaps it had been a bed chamber once, but now it’s just an empty stone room with a large window overlooking what had been a battlefield not long ago. 

Aragorn sits in the open window, breeze brushing his hair back from his face, light from the setting sun illuminating his features. Legolas can see the tension in his friend’s strong brow, see how his jaw is clenched tight. Any other man would not have heard Legolas’s entrance, but Aragorn is no ordinary man.

He turns his head towards Legolas and motions towards the window and Legolas takes a seat across from Aragorn, both of their backs leaned against the side of the window frame so that they can face each other.

“What can I do for you, Legolas?” Aragorn says, voice raspy from yelling over the noise of the battle. There’s a rust-brown streak of blood on the side of his neck and Legolas can see the beginning of bruises on his bare forearms. Boromir’s gauntlets are laying on the floor by Aragorn’s feet, the white tree of Gondor nearly obscured by blood and dust. 

“Your absence has been noted,” Legolas says, watching Aragorn closely. The tension in his friend’s features grows even more apparent, and Legolas must fight the urge to take Aragorn’s face in his hands and smooth out the stress.

“My apologies,” says Aragorn, starting to rise, but Legolas stops him with a hand on Aragorn’s knee, the only part he can reach from this distance. Aragorn sinks back down to the window sill and fixes Legolas with an unreadable look.

“My friend,” Legolas begins, “Are you alright?”

“Of course, Legolas,” says Aragorn, looking confused. “Why do you ask such a question?”

“You spoke to me earlier about your willingness to die with the people of Rohan, and again about it to Théoden King,” says Legolas. “And then you disappear after the battle, and I must admit that I feared for your wellbeing.”

“I would do nothing so rash,” says Aragorn, a trace of anger emerging in his voice.

“But you did not intent to see the dawn, did you?” Legolas says. It takes more than the anger of men to dissuade him.

Aragorn slumps back against the window frame and Legolas can see all of the tension dissolve out of him, “Perhaps not,” he says without looking at Legolas. Instead, Aragorn is surveying the field below them. Bodies still liter the ground, from this distance it’s impossible to distinguish between man and orc.

“Why do you feel such a way, Estel?” says Legolas and he sees Aragorn flinch slightly at the use of his old name.

“Perhaps I am not meant to be king,” Aragorn says and Legolas tightens his grip on Aragorn’s knee. “Perhaps Boromir was right, Gondor has no king and Gondor needs no king.”

“But you would choose death rather than find out?” asks Legolas, trying to mimic the tone he’d use to calm a spooked horse.

“Not by my own hand, but to die in battle would be a glorious death. I would be proud to have given my life for Rohan,” The irony of that is, Legolas thinks, you can hear the royalty in Aragorn’s words. He sounds noble and commanding, even when he’s discussing his own death.

Legolas wants to grab Aragorn and shout at him in frustration, but that is not the way of the elves, instead he rubs his fingers across Aragorn’s knee ever so slightly, trying to soothe him.

“Perhaps you will be ready when the time comes. Now is not forever, you were not born a ranger of the north but grew into one, you will grow into a king as well.”

“Perhaps,” says Aragorn, sounding unconvinced.

“You do not face this task alone,” Legolas says, “When the time comes for you to stand in front of the people of Gondor, you do not have to stand alone.” 

Aragorn’s mouth curves into the barest edge of a smile and he rests his hand over Legolas’s, his broad hand easily covering Legolas’s thin one, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Legolas,” Aragorn says, and stands up from the window sill, dislodging both of their hands.

Legolas follows Aragorn back down the halls of Helm’s Deep, back to the hall that’s being used to treat the wounded. Aragorn silently resumes helping, setting broken bones and tending to cuts and abrasions. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, or so the people of Gondor are fond of saying.

Perhaps one day the king will be able to heal himself.


End file.
